


DC Losers

by BatBoyBlog



Category: DCU (Comics), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King, Shazam! (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 17:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16937361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatBoyBlog/pseuds/BatBoyBlog
Summary: A DC/IT crossover AU, and my best try to sound like Stephen King





	1. The Boy on the Bridge

The town of Derry Maine was small, but not so small that it didn’t have it’s own homeless problem. Like any town in America there were a few bums and hobos. The tramp chair from the 1930s collecting dust in the public library’s basement was a testament to this as a long standing issue. Derry has exactly one homeless minor, and at this moment he was sitting in the shadows of the Kissing Bridge.

Billy Batson sat in the walk way of the bridge unwrapping the day old burger he’d fished out of the trash a few hours ago. His red sweater was stained and muddy, Billy did his best to be clear but the streets creeped in. Even in a place like Derry the streets weren’t that clean, he slept in Bassey Park or the Barrens as often as not. It was easier to dodge the town of Derry’s small and lazy police department if you didn’t sleep where they bothered to check. Billy worried, as he checked the burger, that the librarians were starting to question why he never seemed to change his clothes.

Billy found no mold or rot on the burger. It had been wrapped in foil and carefully placed on top of a cardboard box in the rusty green dumpster behind the Falcon. Billy didn’t know for sure if someone was intentionally leaving food out for him and the other homeless in town to find, but everyone knew the Falcon dumpster was were to go for a pretty good free meal. There was a soup kitchen in the Catholic church’s basement, but Billy avoided it, too many questions about a homeless kid.

Billy took a bite, it wasn’t good but it was the only thing he’d eaten all day. He knew from bitter experience that if he let himself he’d inhale the food and get sick, or worse feel sick for the rest of the day. Billy looked around the gloomy bridge looking for distracts. Soon he was reading the graffiti carved into the walls of the bridge. At first all he saw was boys and girls names linked together with slashes or addition sizes, most inside of messy hearts. Soon however Billy’s eyes started to find other messages.

They were all sizes, some carved into the walls, some painted and scrolled in black marker. “AIDS sent by God for hell bound homes” Billy’s eyes skittered away “drives nails into eyes of fags, for god!” Billy looked away “kill all homos!” “Die fags Die!” everywhere Billy looked another message worse, more violent than the last were etched into the walls. He felt like the rotten wooden walls of the bridge were closing in, as if it was getting darker and darker in the covered bridge.  
Billy could almost hear the sadistic messages being read out in his foster father’s voice. Billy could have sworn he smelled the thick alcohol reek of the man’s breath and the crack of the letter belt he used to use on his foster children. Billy’s hands shook as he took another bite of the burger still looking around reading “Kill a homo for Jesus!” “only good faggot is a lynched fag!” It took a second for him to realize the burger tasted different, then he felt the squirming inside his mouth.

Billy looked down in horror, in his hand was the sliver foil as before but the burger was now teaming with maggots. Billy threw it away from himself and spat a mouthful of green meat and worms. Billy gagged but managed not to throw up. He spent a few moments looking at the lump at his feet watching the small white worms twitch and wriggle blindly. He’d eaten bad food before and paid for it, but he’d been so careful had checked that so carefully how could he have missed it was rotten so totally rotten.

After a few minutes Billy got his breathing under control and looked up, standing up and pulling his knapsack onto his shoulders. He had to go looking for food now. The supermarket threw away it’s day old bread but kept their dumpster locked up in a little outdoor pen, who’s walls Billy would have to climb after dark to get day old bagels. A slight movement caught the corner of his vision and Billy looked left.

A single lonely Red balloon drifted down the middle of the bridge, floating at head height. It’s string, and it was string not a piece of plastic Billy saw, was just long each to leave a few inches dragging on the group. It moved slowly past Billy, who’s eyes were rooted to it. Two feelings struggled in Billy’s guts, he thought of a trip to the circus when he was 5, before his parents died. Cotton candy, porn corn, the tigers in their cages and clowns giving away balloon animals. Along side this memory though, for reasons he couldn’t understand, came the memory of being locked in a tiny closet by his foster father for a full day. The smell of fear and piss and the panic of close dark places.

Billy finished turning his head to follow the path of the ballon and found himself looking at the far exit of the Kissing Bridge. Standing framed in the light at the far end of the bridge was a man. Billy blinked a few times trying to bring the figure into focus his outline was wrong in some way. It took him a few seconds to understand why, the man was dressed in a clown suit, with clown make up.

If he’d been forced to describe The Clown he might have reached for Ronald McDonald. It was the large tuffs of red-orange hair coming from either side of his head. That was however where the similarities ended, he was wearing an old fashioned statin clown suit with red pomp pomps. His mouth was painted red, the white face paint was so thick Billy could see cracks in The Clown’s forehead.

With one hand the clown caught the string of the balloon in his gloved hand. Then he looked at Billy, who at the other end of the bridge shouldn’t have been able to see his eyes he thought in a detached way. Those eyes, at first for just a second Billy thought must be a yellow orange, but just as quickly he was sure they were a blue sliver color, trick contacts for sure Billy thought. Slowly, painfully slowly a real smile broke the makeup grin of The Clown. It was wide and full and friendly, but somehow didn’t fully reach his eyes. The Clown’s free hand slowly rose and he waved at Billy. Billy wondered if The Clown would give him that balloon, if he asked, Billy really wanted that balloon.

Run, that quiet voice that had been with Billy through his 2 and a half years on the streets whispered. Billy was never sure what the voice was if it was him or some guardian angel. However he always listened to it, he’d avoided police raids, unsafe rides, and all the other threats of the street. Billy didn’t even think, when it said run, he ran. He turned and ran.

Straight into Henry Bowers’ chest. Billy only took a second to register who he’d run into before he tried to dodge around Henry and away from him, and The Clown. Patrick Hockstetter pushed him back, Billy almost thought of turning and running toward The Clown just to get away from Hockstetter and Bowers, but from the corner of his eye he saw Victor Criss and Belch Huggins coming up behind him. The tightening circle pushed him against the wall of the bridge.  
“Well well well, if it isn’t homeless Billy” Henry said almost conversationally. “Wow you’re fucking filthy Billy Boy, Patrick, help Bill here clean up.” Patrick grinned and spat into his hand before swiping it down Billy’s face. Billy tried not to speak, and not to cry. Other towns, other places, there’d be kids who make fun of, some times even chased the homeless. In other towns kids had thrown rocks or cans at him, but nothing was like Henry Bowers and his crew, he’d never been hunted before them.

“You know what makes me sick?” Henry said to his gang still sounding friendly. He turned and bend down getting into Billy’s face. “Lazy, worthless, homeless bugs, you suck the life blood out of good hard working Americans. Bet you’re a fucking welfare queen ain’t ya? you’re a fucking queen thats for sure.” That made Billy shiver. “Oh you’re homeless because you like it, aren’t you?” he was spitting and screaming in Billy’s face now. “You love being fucking dirty, making us all look at your gross hobo face, you make me sick!” Henry stepped back and fished in his pocket.

He pulled out the handle to a switch blade. With a snick the blade popped up and Henry looked at it for a long moment with a look of longing and lust. “You know what you do to dirt that’s really stuck in?” He said conversational again. He stepped forward and gently rested the blade on Billy’s cheek. “You take a knife and scrape it away Billy. Who would really miss you? hell with everything going on, you’d just be one of the missing” A slow horrible smile grew on his face. Billy looked left and right, Vic and Belch had a scared panicked look on their faces. Even Patrick Hockstetter was looking doubtful now. He’s really going to do it Billy thought, and they’re not going to stop him.

Billy pushed Henry with all his strength, his hands in the center of Bowers’ chest. Henry Bowers only stumbled back because the move had been so unexpected, it wouldn’t have been enough to free Billy, but Henry tripped. Billy leapt over Henry as he went sprawling. He just had to time to register what Bowers had tripped over, A small painted turtle, before he was off and running. “GET HIM!” Henry screamed and Billy heard the pounding of feet behind him as he ran into Bassey Park. Billy knew he couldn’t out run the bigger boys with their longer legs. He had one hope of getting away, he needed to go somewhere he could hide, somewhere with where his sure footing would mean more. The Barrens was his only hope.


	2. The boy in the car

Richie Tozier didn’t look both ways as he threw one of his legs out into Center Street. He didn’t even look one way, Richie never did. His friends, particularly Eddie Kaspbrak, would have said Richie was reckless. It was true enough Richie never knew when to shut up, it made him the target for the big boys of Henry Bowers gang. Henry Bowers who at that very moment was threatening Billy Batson with a knife on the Kissing Bridge. 

A hand grabbed Richie’s sleeve and pulled him back onto the sidewalk. “Jesus! Richie!” Eddie Kaspbrak snapped the telltale whistle of his asthma in his voice. “You nearly got creamed!” Eddie waved a sleek black town car headed toward them. Richie was fairly sure he could have made it cross Center Street, maybe if he’d put some speed on at the end, before the car hit him. “Do you have any idea what percentage of car accidents are fatal? do you?” Eddie said his voice was going up the way it always did when he was getting ready for a good long rant on his favorite subject; things that can kill you. 

Richie rolled his eyes “All I know is its less deadly than banging your mom” he said with a devilish smile. Stan Uris, who was on the other side of Eddie turned his head to the side to hide his smile as Eddie stood their with his mouth open and working. None of them would realize it then or later but at that moment some strange force, some odd intuition caused them all to turn their faces toward the car as it glided past them. 

for the briefest of seconds each of them made eye contact with small boy sitting in the back of the car. The world seemed to slow to a crawl as the car passed and each of the Losers could see every detail of the boy’s face. His dusty brown skin, shockingly black hair, sharp green eyes over a nose like a knife blade, the hard set of his jaw. Then the boy looked away, breaking eye contact with Richie, time slipped back into it’s normal order and the car sped off. 

“So that’s the rich kid” Stan said flatly. “what?” Eddie said turning to Stan with a look of confusion over his face. Stan looked up and down the street before starting to cross, his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, half guiding and half pushing him into the street. Richie stepped off the sidewalk, again not looking his hand on Eddie’s other shoulder. Stan didn’t speak till they were on the sidewalk on the other side of Center Street. 

“You know that big old house out past Route 2 on Witcham Street, past even the farms?” Stan said once they were safely on the other side, removing his hand from Eddie’s shoulder. Richie let his linger as Eddie nodded and Stan continued. “Well some super rich guy from New York or something, bought it a few years ago, and now every year he sends his son out there for the summer.” Richie sighed on the inside. Stan was lovely company, even funny some times in his strange dry way, but he couldn’t tell a story to save his life. 

“aw Stan my man! you’re leaving out all the good details!” Richie said. He used his hand on Eddie’s shoulder to turn the smaller boy toward him as he threw his free arm wide expansively. “So it’s not just some rich guy, it’s Bruce fucking Wayne Eds” 

“Don’t call me that” Eddie muttered looking away from Richie with the color burning in his cheeks. Richie ignored him, “The richest man in the world boys owns a house in Derry, and he ain’t from New York Stan! he’s from Gotham everyone knows that!” Stan shrugged as if this was not very interesting informations. However his hand drifted to the crown of his head to check the yarmulke pinned there. “And boys and… Eddie-” “hey!” “-he stashes his problem son here every summer.” 

Stan looked down the street where the car had vanished. “I hear they send him to Military school, one of those scared straight programs, during the year” Stan said quietly. This was new gossip for Richie, who didn’t have any of his own, so he made some up. “yeah I heard he robbed a liquor store and almost killed someone” Eddie screwed up his face. “If his dad’s the world’s richest man what the fuck is he doing robbing liquor stories?” That was a very good question Richie thought to himself.

“Uh for the thrill my good man!” Richie slipped into his British voice, which really just sounded like Richie. “The chappy lives for violence Doctor K!” Richie said bugging out his already over magnified eyes and waving his arms widely. Eddie rolled his eyes and started walking away from Richie. “I hear that house is hunted” Stan said in a flat voice looking at his shoes. Richie felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. Something in the flat way Stan had said it, or the way he was looking at the tops of his shoes and not at them made the statement somehow dangerous. 

“Yeah?” Eddie’s voice shook just a bit and Richie knew his best friend could feel it too. “Yeah it’s all black, and dark… it just gives me the creeps.” Richie could almost see the words Stan wasn’t saying. They floated in the air like myst, almost but not quite visible. Richie opened his mouth, anything to dispel the feeling that Stan was hiding something horrible about the Wayne House. “Yeah it’s a regular vampire house Stan the man, I bet that’s it! the kid’s a vampire, Bruce sends him up here so he doesn’t eat his model girlfriends over summer vacation!” Richie let out a laugh that was only a little hysterical. 

“Go on son, drink up those Maine hicks!” Richie said in a fake deep voice that he used to impersonate everyone’s dad. Eddie’s face was screwed up in confusion “I thought vampires were all pale, he was like” Eddie waved his hand over his face trying to think of a way to describe the boy’s skin tone. Richie laughed, and stole a look at Stan, a shadow crossed his friend’s face before a soft easy smile showed and Richie gave a sigh of relief. It was summer after all, they should be having fun.


	3. The House on Witcham Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian faces a vampire

Damian Wayne turned away from the window and stared into the vast interior of the car. It felt to him in that moment that Pennyworth in the front seat was miles away. Damian didn’t spend must time feeling small, despite being short for his age, however just now he felt tiny in the back seat. As if the soft leather had become a waste land and he was stranded there. He couldn’t have told you then or later what had drawn his eye to the three boys on the sidewalk. 

They’d been a messy group of boys about his own age. One with black messy hair and massive glasses wearing a dirty Hawaiian shirt. A boy maybe shorter than Damian himself with not one but two fanny packs around his skinny waist. The last boy had a mop of curly hair on top of a worried face and a kippot balanced on his head. Maybe it had only been the shock of seeing a Jewish kid in a small northern Maine town that had drawn his eye, maybe something else.

For one mad moment Damian felt his mouth open, to tell Pennyworth to… what exactly? He wasn’t sure, did he want his butler to pull over and let him out so he could…play? Like he was a small child he thought with contempt for himself and anyone who might do anything so foolish as play. Damian pushed back the dull hurt of loneliness that grew in his chest. He had always been one of those children who was happy to play on his own, but for the first time in his life the vast Wayne Manor was nearly empty. 

His older two brothers Jason and Richard, had jobs with Father at the firm now. His other two bothers, Timothy and Duke were getting ready for college, which in the Wayne family meant high powered internships with law firms. His sister Cassandra came and went as she pleased. This summer was effectively the first one of Damian’s life so far he’d been an only child. While wild horses would not have dragged this from him, he missed his siblings. More than the simple loneliness of not having them around there was a rumble of unease, things were changing, they were growing up, leaving him, it left Damian feeling like a ship that had slipped its lines and was drifting. 

Damian leaned back in the seat of the car and closed his eyes. Maybe he would ask Pennyworth where the local kids hung out, it couldn’t hurt to be around other people could it? 

The house that Bruce Wayne had gotten, just past the Hanlon and Kent farms was Gothic Victorian. It’s black bulk loomed on a low hill looking like a dragon crouched up there ready to leap down on the cars that drove toward it. While Richie Toizer or Stuttering Bill might have called it a mansion, Damian who lived in a real mansion knew better. He would have never confessed this to any one, least of all his father, but Damian never had understood why Bruce had bought it in the first place. In a secret place that Damian hardly admitted to even having, the place gave him the creeps.

Damian’s favorite part of the old wreck was the small dusty attic over the fourth floor. The small window facing town offered a view of the whole city of Derry and up there it looked almost interesting. Damian sat with his back against the wall next to that window. In his hands was a paper back book, a detective thriller he would have been gravely embarrassed to have his brother Tim see him reading. Dust moats floated through the beams of sunlight. 

Damian’s eyes floated over the same line for the fourth time not really reading it. His mind was fair off. In fact his mind was thinking about how much the house looked just like the old Addams Family TV show or maybe it was the Munsters? Damian could never keep them straight though his brother Jason adored both. It was the kind of house Damian supposed that a monster would live in, the kind of house a vampire would live in.

Damian was a rational boy, to the point of being dull in the eyes of many of his school mates. However Damian Wayne did have one total and all consuming fear, one that was totally irrational and unreasonable. Bats, Damian was terrified of bats. This fear meant that any kind of vampire story or movie made him at least slightly uncomfortable. That movie The Lost Boys had given him nightmares for a week.

Yes this gothic house with it’s black paint was surely just the place a vampire would love. In fact Damian could almost imagine a creepy vampire, hanging by it’s hooked toes from the ceiling in here waiting for sundown to fly out the window and drink the blood of the town’s people of Derry. Damian gave a little shiver and looked up from his book, something was different. It took a moment for him to place what had changed. The light, the light was no long shafting in from the window.

The attic was now a strange gray shadowy twilight. Damian blinked slowly staring at a closet door that he was sure hadn’t been there early. As he watched the door swung open with a long creaking sound. Damian swallowed hard shifting up to his feet, some small animal part of his brain was screaming for him to run. A louder, firmer voice that sounded like his father and his brother Richard was telling him that Waynes don’t run away. 

There was nothing to see in the darkness of the doorway but Damian felt a cold breeze that smelled of dust and small animal droppings coming from it. He heard from the door a sound that was like footsteps but also like the flap of leathery wings. Damian Wayne couldn’t have moved if he wanted down he was rooted to the spot, knowing with a horrible sureness what was coming toward him. 

He saw it’s suit first. It was a fine dinner jacket with a white vest and tie, like Bela Lugosi, over it’s shoulder was a cape, black on the outside, with a blood red lining. A strangled half scream broke from Damian’s lips when he saw it’s head. There was nothing human there. It had a head and face like that of a massive bat, a bat with no fur what so ever. It’s hairless skin was a paper white and lined with blue-green veins. It’s mouth was open showing rows and rows of crazy teeth. Whatever rational part of Damian’s mind was left coolly told him that bats didn’t have teeth like that.

Damian looked at the monster’s hands, long fingers with too many joint flexed and twitched each one capped off with a midnight black razor sharp nail. Damian realized it dull horror that the Vampire was gliding over the floor. It’s twisted crawled feet were a few inches off the ground so only the sharp hooked nails dragged on the floor boards. 

Damian looked up and saw now there were a row of orange fuzzy pompoms down the front of the Vampire’s vest. That may well have been what saved his life that day. That extra bit of unreality and strangeness on top of the horror snapped him back to himself. Run came a voice that wasn’t his or his father or any of his brothers, ringing in his head. Damian Wayne did something he’d never done before in his life, he ran away. Damian ran to beat the devil, through the attic door, slamming it behind him, he ran and jumped down the stairs three at a time. He didn’t stop till he was outside in the bright summer sun. 

He turned then panting and sweating the shakes just starting and looked up. Just for a moment framed in the highest window Damian was sure he saw a pale face, a face with red lips and a storm of wild red hair around it’s head. A gloved hand waved down and Damian and then it was gone, like a blink.


	4. The Farm Boy and The Scarecrow

Sweat ran into Jon Kent’s eyes. He wiped it away with the back of his arm and blinked up at the hot noon day sun. It was one of those unforgivingly hot days that are all the worse for their rarity in New England. The air was thick, you could cut it with a knife Jon’s father would have said. Jon was wearing his overalls and no shirt but even so sweat ran like a river down his back. Jon cursed himself again for getting a late start on his chores. 

His parents were not very strict but the farm wouldn’t run itself and every day there would be a posted list of chores for Jon. He could do them any time in any order during the day and they never took the whole day. He had planned in the far off land of yesterday to finish the chores early in the morning before it got really hot and then maybe go see his neighbor Mike Hanlon and see if he wanted to go for a swim. 

The morning had gotten away from Jon as it often did and now in the beating heat of the day. Jon’s long hair flopped in his eyes, dark ropes soaked in sweat. He half carried half dragged a large steel bucket overflowing with chicken feed. From inside their pen the birds eyed him in their cold inhuman way. Of the animals on the farm Jon was least fond of the chickens. The pigs could be far sweater, while the farm’s only horse, Comet loved Jon. Jon loved the sheep his friend Mike raised on his farm and had been horrified to learn that Mike had to kill them himself. 

With both hands and a grunt of effort Jon lifted the bucket up over the lip of the pen and dumped it over. He stepped back shaking out his arms, not for the first time he wished he had super strength like the heroes in his comics, like Thor or Spider-Man. Once he was sure the Chickens would eat the feed and not each other Jon started walking back toward the barn. 

Jon swung the empty bucket and ran through the chores he had left to do. On the way to the barn he passed the corn field. The green stocks swayed slightly to a breeze only they could feel. Jon did his best not to look at the scarecrow in the middle of the field. As a small boy he’d been terrified of the ghostly figures standing in the fields as the sun went now. Even now their ratty clothes, with the straw sticking out of holes like broken bones out of ripped skin gave him the creeps. Bright sunny days like this one when every detail was clear weren’t so bad but when the sun was just coming up, sometimes Jon was sure they’d moved in the night. 

The sun skirted behind a cloud then and Jon looked up at it for a second, he could have sworn that the sky had been cloudless a moment earlier. His eyes settled back onto the scarecrow in the middle of the field. A moment ago the shirt it had been wearing had been faded but still bright. A red and blue checked shirt his father had owned, maybe before Jon had been born. In the shade cast by the cloud in front of the sun the shirt looked dark, almost black. The jaunty hat that his mother had put on it now seemed to droop and hide its face. 

Jon wasn’t even aware he’d stopped walking to stare at the scarecrow up on his post. Jon felt cold fingers crawling up his back as if the sweat there was freezing against his skin. Slowly as he watched the scarecrow’s head turned toward him. Jon’s eyes bugged out wide his breath started to come in short hitching gasps. The whole straw man started to turn toward Jon who heard a horrible cracking and popping as it moved. 

In that moment Jon was sure, totally sure that this thing was coming after him. Once it freed itself from it’s post it would walk or worse run on legs that shouldn’t have held it. Something about that thought, the horror of it made him turn and run. Smack into the boy in the suit. Jon staggered backward and blinked into the wide terrified blue green eyes. The boy was the only kid his age Jon had ever seen wear a suit, a black one with a green tie. For a moment he wasn’t sure the kid was real and not somehow a part of the nightmare he was having. 

However the kid’s eyes were staring behind Jon with terror and that was real enough. Jon grabbed the boy’s hand and ran dragging him along behind. Jon’s bare feet pounded along the heat baked dirt of the farm running blindly. He never looked back but never let go of the other boy’s hand. “It’s gaining!” came the panicked gasp from beside him and Jon put on the speed. 

They flew through a patch of tall grass and almost fell over the low stone wall that marked the boarder between the Kent and Hanlon farms. Jon let out a horse scream as he jerked the boy upright and started running toward the Hanlon barn. “MIKE!” he screamed, he heard the monster leap the stone wall, it was running behind them. Jon risked a look behind him and saw it. The Scarecrow seemed to be mostly made of shadows now, long stocks of straw stuck out of the end of it’s sleeves and seemed to be grasping at them like fingers. Running down the front of the now black shirt was a row of orange pompoms, maybe it was that that made him trip.

Jon fell and the boy he was with fell with him. He landed on his back and the other boy landed on top of him, Jon tried to push the boy off and scramble backward on his butt at the same time. The monster closed the gap between them in seconds lunging for them. Then it exploded, it’s top half ripping free from it’s pants and cartwheeling in the air spraying straw every which way. Mike Hanlon stood over Jon with a rake in his hands held like a baseball bat. His eyes were wide and wild and he was panting. 

Jon blinked at the scarecrow’s remains but now it was just a pile of old clothes and moldy straw. Mike offered his hand to Jon and pulled them to their feet. “What the hell was that?” He said his eyes still wild. “and who the hell is he?” He nodded at the boy Jon had saved. The boy was brushing himself off and picking straw from his clothes. “I am Damian Wayne” He said without looking at them, as if that explained everything, and maybe it even did.


End file.
